Temporarily Untitled
by Ruse2
Summary: After a bad storm, a girl is found sleeping on the fire escape of the Lodging House, covered in blood and hopelessly lost. One newsie suspects that there's more to her story than she admits to, and it's up to him to find out what she's hiding... and why.
1. Prologue: Carrying the Banner

-=-=-  
  
For the first time in weeks, it was raining. No, not the teasing drizzle that so often splattered the city in haphazard little droplets, but a full- fledged downpour; the kind that came from nowhere, catching people completely off guard. The girl who ran through the middle of the street was no exception, beyond all hope of staying even partially dry. Her clothes were plastered to her cold skin, and strands of dark hair that had escaped the confines of a braid now straggled, dripping, around her face.  
  
She was lost, and that was in itself a mixed blessing- if she had no idea of where she was headed, chances were, neither did her pursuers. She snuck a glance over her shoulder as she stumbled along. In the dark- and the rain- she could barely see the buildings she knew to be a few feet away from her, let alone anyone that might be following. Good. It meant that they couldn't see her, either.  
  
The girl stopped running. Her heart pounded, throbbing and echoing in her ears, until a sudden wave of dizziness sent her reeling into the rough mass of a brick wall. Her aching leg muscles finally gave out, and she folded into a shivering heap at the base of the wall, letting out a choked sob. Tears coursed down her dirt-streaked face, mingling with rain and blood. The latter ran in diluted red rivulets that laced across her bare forearms, trickled off of her fingertips, and soaked her shoddy second-hand clothing. A long but shallow gouge ran unevenly along the outside of her right arm from wrist to elbow- a careless mistake that would leave a scar as its souvenir. Of course, it could always be worse- she could be dead. The thought didn't console her.  
  
A sudden scuffling noise sent her into a panic. She flattened against the wall with wide eyes, searching in vain for the responsible party, until something skittered over her feet, muttering and growling to itself. A wet cat.  
  
The girl stood shakily, scrubbing at her eyes, unaware (or else uncaring) of the blood she smeared across her cheekbones and forehead in the process. She had to find somewhere to go, before someone did find her there, someone whose intentions were considerably worse than those of the stray cat. Locating the nearest street sign, she was only inches away from it before she could just barely make it out- Duane St.  
  
Well, it seemed as likely a place as any to find somewhere to sleep, while a few hours still remained before dawn. She set off around the corner, squinting through the heavy sheets of rain, and it wasn't long before she spotted a fire escape tucked safely away beneath a slightly slanting roof. Whether it was made that way, or if it had merely sagged with age, was impossible to tell, but she quite honestly didn't care. Cautiously, she edged alongside the building until she was standing a foot away from the wrought-iron ladder that suspended from the platform. She eyed it, calculating the height of it, the distance, the slickness of stray raindrops- and then she leapt, catching hold of the bars. Soundlessly, she eased herself up on the fire escape- and froze.  
  
Her own reflection stared back at her in alarm. She blinked dazedly at the distorted image. First the cat, and now this? She asked herself. I'm losing my touch. She leaned towards the windowpane, trying to get a better look inside.  
  
  
  
Through the glass, she caught a glimpse of an astonishingly peaceful sight. Bunks lined the walls of the modest room, each one occupied by a sleeping tenant- boys, she guessed, judging by the unkempt appearance of the place. Abruptly, in a bunk too close to the window for the girl's comfort, one of them stirred in his sleep, mumbling something under his breath. She jumped. The boy rolled over, turning his back to her, and eased back into a peaceful sleep. Reminded of how tired she really was, the girl turned away and settled down for the remainder of the night.  
  
-=-=- 


	2. Chapter One: Already In Debt

-=-=-  
  
Oh, wow... I never expected all of these reviews! So, thanks to (in no particular order) Aki, Dragonfly, Bottle Cap, Gears, Morning Dew, BonBon, Mondie, Autumn, Stripes, Riot, Pisky, Emu, Classic, Divinity, Sport, Snooza, Coffee, Kora, and Sully for all of your great input!  
  
And, just a little author's note... I'm not really sure about this chapter. It started out really easily yesterday morning, and I ended up writing most of it in about a half an hour, and I was really confident about the way things were going... but after the first section, things started snagging a bit. So I took a break, came back to the computer a few hours later, and decided that I was hesitant about writing from the boys' point of view so early on in the story, because most people wouldn't, and especially because I haven't developed the main character too well yet. And then I sat there, staring at the screen, debating whether or not to hit the 'upload' button because I have a paranoid fear of being flamed. Obviously, I did anyway- compositional risk, my eighth grade english teacher would've said. If I get flamed, I get flamed, I guess.  
  
So... um... let me know what you think. Are the accents appropriate? Is the dialogue believable? In the meantime, if I decide after a while that it doesn't seem to be working out, I might just trash the entire chapter and start over again. Anyway, enough rambling... on with the fic!  
  
-=-=-  
  
Dawn came at long last to the Duane Street Lodging House, and with it, the early morning wake-up call. The old man who ran the establishment- Kloppman by name- made his usual morning rounds, badgering his lodgers one by one until they fell out of bed, bleary-eyed.  
  
Specs groaned and rolled over, pulling his thin blanket over his head in an unsuccessful attempt to shut out the noise. Almost as soon as he had, he heard a telltale muted thump as his bunkmate, nicknamed Dutchy, dropped to the floor barefooted.  
  
" 'Ey, Specs, guess what time it is?"  
  
"Time tah go back tah sleep?" Specs asked hopefully. He heard Dutchy laugh.  
  
"Now dat's wheah you'se wrong," came the bright response. Specs grumbled under his breath- how was it possible that his friend could be so wide- awake at this time of day? Reluctantly, he pulled the blanket back down, frowning at Dutchy's back as he ducked into the wash room. A moment later the newsie reappeared, towel in hand. Predictably, he was grinning at his bunkmate.  
  
"What're you so happy foah?" Specs muttered, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bunk. Dutchy's grin widened.  
  
"Why not? 'S a nice mornin'," he responded as he began vigorously toweling his blond hair dry. "Sun's shinin' again. Wit' any luck, dah headlines'll be good again tahday." His voice was only slightly muffled by the towel.  
  
"We kin only hope," Specs muttered, fumbling for his glasses as Dutchy walked over to the streaky-paned window to see how bad last night's storm had been.  
  
"Whoa, what've we got heah?" Dutchy suddenly said to himself, barely audible over the noise of the other newsboys as they got ready for work.  
  
Specs looked up. "What?"  
  
"Come'n see foah yoahself." Dutchy's startled gaze didn't leave whatever it was he was staring at, and, his curiosity piqued, Specs joined the blonde, wiping his glasses on his undershirt before putting them on.  
  
"Is dat a-"  
  
"A what?" Asked a new voice. Specs glanced over his shoulder at his friend Snoddy, who came over to the window, pulling his shirt over his head as he did so. Specs shrugged, and returned his attention to the fire escape. Snoddy's eyes widened.  
  
" 'Ey, what's goin' on?"  
  
A fourth person- Skittery- joined them, slipping his striped suspenders over the shoulders of his pink undershirt. Nobody mentioned the rumpled state of his dark hair, but then again, none of the three gathered at the window had given him more than a quick backward glance. He frowned, nudging his way in between Specs and Dutchy to get a better look at whatever it was they were staring at.  
  
"You bummahs!" he smacked Dutchy upside the head, and repeated the gesture for Specs.  
  
"Ow," Dutchy whined. Specs looked insulted as he readjusted his glasses. Snoddy eyed him warily, wondering if he'd be next.  
  
"Well?" Skittery asked impatiently. "Whaddya waitin' foah?" He went to unlatch the window, but none of his friends made any move to help. He sighed in exasperation, rolling his eyes at them. "Whatsa mattah? Ain't any a' yous evah seen a goil befoah?"  
  
-=-=-  
  
The girl cautiously opened her eyes, letting them adjust to the light. She yawned and stretched stiffly, trying to remember how long it had been since the last time she'd had to sleep out on someone's fire escape. Months, maybe even a year, she was sure. A small smile flickered across her face as she recalled the last sight she'd seen the previous night, and she started to get to her feet, turning around to see if the boys were still asleep.  
  
They weren't. In fact, they were watching her. Well... four of them were, but that was bad enough. She managed to appear unfazed at their presence, but it wasn't easy to fight the instinct to make a run for the ladder. The foremost thought in her mind was that she had to make it seem like she had expected them to be there- it was the only way to have the upper hand in any situation, or so she had been taught when she'd first taken to the streets. /Make them second-guess themselves. Make them think I've got everything the way I want it to be/, she told herself. The window opened.  
  
"Mornin'," she said amiably, as if she were meeting the four of them on the street one sunny day.  
  
"Uh... same tah you," one of them replied hesitantly, a blonde who nervously pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. He glanced uncertainly at the guy behind him, one with tawny hair and blue eyes. The second guy shrugged.  
  
"If it ain't bein' too forward," the third one spoke up, "may I ask what you'se out theah?" The girl tried not to crack a smile at the sight of him. If he could only see his hair, she was sure he'd be sufficiently embarrassed.  
  
"Sleepin'," she remained composed as she answered casually, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Number Three raised his eyebrows at that, but didn't comment on it.  
  
"Well... uh... are yah comin' inside, or what?" He finally asked her.  
  
/What? Come... inside?/ The girl didn't trust him, not at all... but of course, she couldn't let /him/ see that. She shrugged indifferently. "Am I expected to?" Apparently, the guy didn't know how to respond. Instead, the fourth one answered her.  
  
"Well, yah might want a change a' clothes, 'cause yoahs is kinda... um... doity."  
  
The girl looked down at her shirt. Aside from being threadbare and having a few small tears here and there, it was indeed... dirty. In fact, so were her pants, and even her forearms. Well, 'dirty' wasn't quite the word.  
  
"Yah mean 'bloody'," she said, quite bluntly.  
  
Four shifted his stance uneasily. "Yeah. So, uh...." He stepped away from the windowsill to make room, as did his companions. The girl took the invitation- she had no choice, really. There was nothing she hated more than being backed into a corner, but somehow she had just let it happen. /I've got to stop slipping up like this/, she told herself firmly, taking a look around.  
  
-=-=-  
  
The girl didn't know where to look first. Everywhere she turned, the newsboys were dashing around the room getting dressed, washing up, and some of the older ones were shaving. They were joking around, and she thought she heard one or two of them singing. She ducked just in time to avoid a flying towel, but when she turned around, the culprit was nowhere to be seen.  
  
" 'Ey, Kloppman!"  
  
Her attention snapped back to the four guys. The one who had spoken- the tawny-haired one, who had until this point remained silent- was now trying to get the attention an older man who was busy harassing one of the more sluggish boys until he at last admitted defeat and stumbled towards the sinks.  
  
"Yeah, Snoddy?" The man called over all of the noise.  
  
"Could yah c'mere?" Snoddy raised his voice to make sure he'd been heard. The old man started to come over, occasionally stopping to encourage some of the more lethargic newsies.  
  
"In dah meantime," he said to the girl, "dis is Dutchy an' Specs. He's Skittery." In turn, he indicated the blonde, the one who had seemed unnerved by her lack of concern for her clothes, and the guy wearing the pink shirt. She couldn't help it this time, and smirked as she was introduced to the last one, Skittery.  
  
"What?" he asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.  
  
She shook her head, her smile widening a bit. "Yah haven't looked in dah mirror yet, have yah?"  
  
He didn't say anything, but the girl noted with amusement that he glanced around the room, trying to locate the nearest mirror without being obvious about it. The old man, Kloppman, finally came over. The girl didn't like his appraising look, but she knew he had every right to question her presence, especially considering her current state.  
  
"What's this all about?" He finally asked.  
  
"Our new friend heah was sleepin' on dah fiah escape. We t'ought we'd jist invite 'er in." The guy who had been introduced as Specs put a hand on the girl's shoulder, and she flinched at the sudden contact. She didn't have to look at him to know that his facial expression was that of mild confusion. He removed his hand quickly.  
  
"Is that so?" Kloppman mused, as if to himself. "Well, well, in that case, I suppose it's all right. You don't have any place to stay?"  
  
The girl shook her head with a respectful, "No, sir."  
  
The old man chuckled to himself. "I don't think any of these boys have ever called me 'sir'. Those the only clothes you got?" He indicated her less than orderly attire, and made a point of purposely ignoring the blood. She nodded. "Well, I can lend yah some, but you'd want to be keeping them, right?" Another nod. "In that case, we might just be able to work out some kind of deal, since it's safe to assume you can't pay for 'em."  
  
"A deal?" The girl was curious, now. What could she possibly do for Kloppman in exchange for such an offer? Well, she supposed, if the terms were reasonable, she might consider it. After all, there was no shortage of clotheslines in the city, and it wouldn't be hard to 'borrow' an item or two if she didn't accept this offer.  
  
"A deal," Kloppman reaffirmed. "D'you see that boy over there?" He nodded towards a bunk located halfway across the room. The girl had almost overlooked the newsie, who for some reason or another, hadn't been made to get up. "That's Swifty. He ain't selling today because he's been feeling a little under the weather," Kloppman explained. "I'll tell yah what. You sell his papes for him until he can sell again, and consider the debt paid. How's that sound?"  
  
The girl considered. Clotheslines were beginning to sound like a /much/ better plan. "Free lodging..."  
  
"Done." The girl didn't recognize the word as her own, and she somehow found herself shaking hands with Kloppman.  
  
/What have I gotten myself into?/  
  
-=-=- 


	3. Chapter Two: Hitting It Off

Whoa... it's been a while, hasn't it? I had a serious bout of writers' block for a few days, there, and then my computer just... stopped working, and erased three pages! I was so mad... I'm still not satisfied with some of the dialogue- there iwill/i be renovations in the future, I promise. Never fear, faithful reviewers, because the next part is already halfway done... at least, in my head. Might take me a few days to type up, especially because this Sunday will be my birthday- I'll be sixteen, and therefore need to devote the next few days reviewing my driver's manual so that I'll be ready to get behind the wheel. Aaaand, I'll be spending this coming Sunday through Tuesday camping somewhere just outside of Lancaster County, PA (yes... Amish country). Anyway, enjoy! Feedback is ialways/i appreciated.  
  
One last note- I just read the end bit, and am horrified by it. Of course, it will make more sense later, but this is inot/i a Mary-Sue. Trust me.  
  
-=-=-  
  
At long last, the girl finally found herself alone. The newsies had all left for the distribution center, even her new "friends", who had gone to buy the morning edition before it sold out. After finding a few items of clothing for her, Kloppman had retreated to his private quarters. The only other person around was the kid she was selling for, and judging by the silence in the room, he was taking the opportunity to sleep in for once.  
  
When she was sure that she wouldn't be disturbed, the girl made use of the empty washroom. The water closet she found inside was a luxury she simply could not pass up, despite the fact that she would have rather been anywhere else iexcept/i inside the newsboys' lodging house, getting ready to spend the entire day hawking headlines. After washing up as quickly and as thoroughly as she could manage, the girl toweled off, her gaze falling to rest on the two piles of clothes that waited for her on a cluttered countertop. Hesitating, she glanced between the two, considering her options. In an almost cautious move, she tugged at the sleeve of a clean cream-colored undershirt.  
  
iIf I take this, I'm stuck here/i, she reminded herself. iIt's not too late. I can still walk away from this whole thing.../i  
  
She icould/i, but she would still need new clothes. She scrutinized her old shirt, which was formerly green but now a ruined brownish mess of darker stains and splotches. Wearing it outside would, of course, be impossible- unless she wanted to attract all sorts of unwanted attention, something she most certainly did not need if she intended on stealing a new one. That left her with two options: she could do it the honest way and iearn/i the clothes in front of her, or she could just take them and slip away before anyone even knew what happened. The latter would be easy enough...  
  
-=-=-  
  
iI can't believe I'm doing this. I can't./i  
  
The girl stood in front of a mirror, looking herself over critically. The cream-colored undershirt fit snugly enough, as it should, and the problem presented by the slightly large olive green knickers was easily solved with a pair of suspenders. For the moment, she set aside the vest and button- down shirt, piling them with her old clothes- they could wait until later. She plucked a comb out of the assortment of junk strewn all over the countertop and set to work untangling her straight brown hair. When it was sufficiently combed out, she wove it back into a neat braid, tying the end off with a bit of brown leather cord that she had acquired some time ago. She didn't care how it looked, really, but having it pulled back just made things more convenient.  
  
Leaving the extra clothes in an unnoticed corner, she padded out into the bunkroom, boots and socks in one hand, cap in the other. Seeing no chairs in the near vicinity, she sat down on an empty bottom bunk, still rumpled from its occupant's use, and started to pull on her socks, staring blankly at the wood-paneled opposite wall.  
  
"So, you'se gonna be sellin' foah me?"  
  
The girl jumped, quickly snapping out of her daze. She had almost forgotten that the kid- Swifty, if she remembered right- was even in the room. iThat's two times in the same day. What is /iwrongi with me?/i  
  
"Uh... yeah." She shifted to the other side of the bed, so that she could talk to the kid face-to-face. "Jist 'till you'se feelin' a liddle bettah, Mr. Kloppman said."  
  
He propped himself up on his elbows, a faint smile crossing his face. "Kloppy wouldn't let me sell tahday, uddahwise I'd be out dere right now, jist like usual. It's awlmost like he knew yah'd be heah dis mornin'."  
  
The girl nodded. "Yeah, like he knew..."  
  
She ducked her head, concentrating on lacing up one scuffed red-brown boot, but more importantly, to hide the worried frown that crossed her face. Now that she thought about it, the situation did seem a little strange. Either the old man really ihad/i known, or it had been one big coincidence.  
  
iYes, that /ihasi to be it. I was just in the right place at the right time. Or maybe the right place at the wrong time.../i  
  
"So... have yah evah sold papes befoah?" Swifty asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had begun to settle in the otherwise empty room.  
  
"Nevah," the girl answered with a slight shake of her head. It wasn't a ilie/i, per say; pretending to sell papers and actually selling papers were two entirely different matters, after all.  
  
"Oh... well, even in dat case, dere's nothin' tah worry about. Any one a' dah boys'll be willin' tah show ya dah ropes." The dark-haired newsie assured her.  
  
She nodded. "I kinda figgahed."  
  
"Why's dat?" He wanted to know.  
  
With a shrug, she answered, "I dunno. You an' yoah friends jist seem dah type."  
  
" Dah 'type'? "  
  
She hesitated, thinking it out. "Yeah... frien'ly, I guess yah could say."  
  
"Yah mean 'talkative'." He grinned at her.  
  
"Jist a liddle," she conceded, laughing.  
  
There was another lengthy pause. The girl reached for the second boot and started to pull it on. In an uncomfortable sort of way, she was conscious that Swifty's eyes were on her.  
  
"Hey, um..." Swifty started to say, but paused. The girl shot him a questioning glance, until he continued, "I'se sorry, but I don' t'ink I caught yoah name."  
  
The girl almost lost control of her nerves. Almost. "Dat's 'cause I nevah gave it." She smiled, though her mind was a mess of frantic thoughts and impulses, and before she knew what she was doing, she introduced herself. "Name's Cat."  
  
Naturally, it wasn't. She didn't like that she had to lie, especially to a sick kid who was only trying to be friendly, but giving her real name meant taking an unnecessary risk, and she had made too many mistakes already. Somehow, names mentioned in public- even in a casual conversation between friends- had a way of being heard by unwelcome ears. She didn't exactly want to advertise her presence in Manhattan, and wanted even less for some of those unwelcome ears to discover that she was a inewsie/i, no less. She wasn't sure which would be worse- the threats she would receive, or the ribbing...  
  
"Cat. Well, uh, Cat... I jist wanted tah, uh, yah know, say t'anks. I really 'preciate yah doin' dis foah me," Swifty said candidly.  
  
The girl was startled, but she recovered quickly. "It's me pleasuh, Swifty." She flashed him a smile, setting her hat atop her head. "Now, not tah be rude oah nothin', but I'se supposed tah meet Dutchy 'n' Specs out front-"  
  
Swifty interrupted her. "Nah, go ahead! After all," he added with a grin, "I'se gotta make sure you'se got enough time tah sell all a' me papes."  
  
"A'coise dere'll be enough time. In fact, I mean tah be back eahly," she challenged in response, bounding down the stairs before the newsie could even think of an appropriate retort.  
  
-=-=-  
  
iI shouldn't've done that. I really shouldn't've.../i The girl mentally berated herself, stepping out onto the walkway. She blinked, letting her eyes adjust to the light, and glanced left, then right. There were no signs of her new friends.  
  
Well... at least isome/ithing was working in her favor. With one more stealthy glance over her shoulder, she slipped into the crowd and walked away, leaving the lodging house behind her.  
  
-=-=-  
  
Skittery slapped his money down on the counter, waiting impatiently for his papers. One of the Delanceys- Skittery didn't care to look up to see which one- shoved a stack at him, muttering gruffly. The dark-haired newsie, who had been thumbing through the papers to make sure they were all there, gave him a level look.  
  
"Got somet'in' tah say, Oscah?" He challenged. Before he could hand his papers over to Snoddy or Pie Eater for safekeeping, he was interrupted by the nervous, shifty-looking man in charge of the distribution office. His name was Weisel, but it would be a cold day in Hell before any of the newsies would call him anything but 'Weasel'. Even the Delancey brothers referred to him as 'Uncle Weas".  
  
"That's enough. You got your papes, kid, you're holdin' up the line," the short, shrewd man told Skittery. "Next! Four-eyes!"  
  
"Specs," Skittery's friend muttered as he tossed his money on the counter. "Dah usual." He dug around in a pocket, and slid a dime and nickel under the bars that covered the window. "An' thoity extra."  
  
"Gettin' gutsy, 'ey Specs?" Someone called out. Specs ignored whoever it had been and accepted the thirty papers. Dutchy was next, followed shortly by Snoddy and Pie Eater. Skittery waited by the gate, shifting his stance restlessly. When the group of four started out, he fell into step with them.  
  
"So who's takin' dah new goil wid dem tahday?" Dutchy asked, skimming the front page of the topmost paper in his stack.  
  
Specs shrugged, "Dunno. Whoevah wants to." Like Dutchy, he sized up the day's headlines. He frowned, apparently displeased with what he saw. Silence fell over the group, save for Pie and Snoddy talking quietly amongst themselves. Skittery assumed they were deciding on the day's selling spot. He studied the crowd, quietly noting the directions in which the most prosperously dressed people were headed. Before he realized it, they were turning back onto Duane Street, and the lodging house came into view.  
  
"Speak a' dah devil, Specs," Skittery commented, nodding towards the front of the building. A thin figure wearing an ensemble of brown, tan, and green stepped outside, hesitated, and dove into the crowd, headed in the opposite direction. Sure, the clothes were different, newer, but it was unmistakable- it was the girl. And she looked as though she knew exactly where she was going...  
  
" 'Ey!" Dutchy shouted, trying to wave the girl down. She hesitated, though it wasn't until the blonde yelled again that she turned to acknowledge that she'd heard them. She paused, but then jogged back towards them.  
  
"I didn't know if you gentlemen was comin' back tah get me," she told them as soon as they were within earshot. "I t'ought I was goin' towahds dah distribution centah, tah see if I could run intah you'se."  
  
"Well, dah distribution centah's dah uddah way." Skittery said, a bit stiffly.  
  
"Well, now I know dat," she told him. Specs passed her a stack of newspapers, and she tucked them under one arm. "Anyway, back tah business. I know I'se s'posed tah have a nickname like you'se awl got, but I t'ought dat I could jist stick tah bein' called Cat, 'cause it's me real name an' awl."  
  
"Dat's fine," Dutchy assured her.  
  
"So, what'm I s'posed tah do now? Jist walk around an' see who'll buy a papah?" At that, Snoddy laughed, his amusement echoed by the others. Skittery frowned, eyeing the girl warily.  
  
"Dat ain't dah way it woiks," Specs told her. "Dere are a few t'ings yah jist gotta loin from dah pros, I guess. Oahdinarily, we newsies got sellin' partners- me an' Dutchy, foah example, oah Snoddy an' Pie Eatah heah. Skittery, well, he's jist a diff'rent story. He don't like tah sell wid a partner, 'cept sometimes Bumlets."  
  
"T'anks, Specs, but I can talk foah meself," Skittery put in defensively.  
  
"Yah'd nevah know it," the girl countered, smiling in an attempt to soften the annoyed glance he shot at her.  
  
"I jist don't like tah talk 'less I have tah, unlike dese guys," he told her. "Dey'll stand heah all day wastin' time, when dere's woik tah do..."  
  
"Maybe we should get sellin', den?" The girl suggested.  
  
Skittery smiled. "Yeah. Let's do dat. Meetcha guys at Tibby's latah?"  
  
Dutchy nodded affirmatively. "See you'se den!"  
  
-=-=-  
  
As soon as Skittery rounded the corner, the new girl hovering at his heels, Dutchy let out a loud laugh, earning querulous glances from Specs, Snoddy, and Pie.  
  
"An' what, may I ask, is so funny?" Specs demanded.  
  
"Jist look at dah pair of 'em." Dutchy nodded towards where their friend had gone.  
  
Specs looked towards the corner, confused. "Who? Skitts an' Cat?"  
  
"Who else would he be talkin' about?" Pie Eater asked rhetorically. He turned to Dutchy, interested, "But why?"  
  
"Ain't it obvious?" The blonde grinned devilishly as he continued, "Skitts means tah make Cat his goil!" 


	4. Chapter Three: A Matter of (Mis)Trust

Finally updated... took me long enough, didn't it? The next part should be considerably faster, though, and longer. Um. Hmm... let's see... how 'bout a (somewhat) belated run-down of the review page for the last two updates?  
  
DF Hehe, thanks. How 'bout some more of PL?  
  
Morning Dew Thanks! *does the 'I'm-sixteen-and-will-get-my-permit-stamped- as-soon-as-my-parents-will-take-me-to-Motor-Vehicles' dance*  
  
Aki!!! Yeah, Swifty *does* rock! I'll make sure he makes a few more appearances soon. *dances again, just for the heck of it*  
  
Splash Thanks! Yeah, Skitts, Dutchy, and Specs are three of my favorites, too, and they deserve to be written in a lot more stories.  
  
Lange Just wanted to say that I just read the first couple chapters of "Something There" and I really like it so far... -grins-  
  
Ladybug Thank yah!  
  
Faith What a coincidence! I had just finished "A Christmas Story" (good stuff!), figured I'd amble on over to my review page, and what should I see but your comment?  
  
Kora Oh man, you just boosted my ego, like, ten times over! Thanks!  
  
-=-=-  
  
They walked for an entire block in absolute silence. Every so often, the girl found an opportunity to sneak a sideways glance at Skittery, as pointless as it seemed- the frown that darkened his features never changed. He made no indication that he noticed her at all, keeping his gaze focused straight ahead. Judging by his self-assured stride, the girl knew that he had a specific destination in mind, though she couldn't so much as hazard a guess as to where they were headed. She let her gaze wander elsewhere, taking in her unfamiliar surroundings, trying to memorize the streets, the tenements, the local businesses. It was another one of those acquired habits, she supposed, to always know where she could find an escape route.  
  
One thing in particular was bothering her, though, and that was Skittery. He was so absorbed in his brooding that he was making no attempts whatsoever to thin out the stack of papers he carried under one arm. The idea was to /sell/ the papers... wasn't it?  
  
"Hey, um, Skittery," she said, a bit tentatively. He looked over.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"When're we gonna staht tryin' tah sell dese t'ings?" She hefted her string-wrapped bundle. Skittery's eyes flickered to the street sign they were passing under, and- not surprisingly- he frowned at it.  
  
"Dis is Mush an' Kid Blink's sellin' spot," he finally told her. The girl wasn't particularly thrilled with the answer. Though she couldn't be certain, his tone of voice seemed to suggest that he was annoyed that she'd even spoken up. She was a bit perplexed by his attitude- only a few minutes before, in front of his friends, he had made it seem as if he wanted her company, despite what Specs had said. She decided to wait a few moments before daring to speak again.  
  
"So, wheah exactly is we goin', an' how long's it gonna take tah get dere?" This time, Skittery didn't even give the girl the courtesy of looking her way, and she just barely caught the muttered response: "Awlmost dere".  
  
"Dat's helpful," she said under her breath. She was certain that he had heard, but he didn't bother with a response.  
  
Two blocks later, he was showing no signs of slowing down, let alone stopping. The girl had, quite frankly, had enough.  
  
"Dis is it," she announced, planting her feet firmly in place. "I ain't goin' any furthah 'till I know wheah we's goin', an' how much longah it'll be. An' no-" she added when Skittery's scowling gaze swung towards her, " 'Awlmost dere' an' 'Not too fah' ain't good ansahs."  
  
He was silent. Instead of firing back a sarcastic retort, as the girl expected him to, he merely shrugged and walked away. She swore, having no other choice but to follow- she knew that she wouldn't be able to find her way back to the lodging house on her own. She hesitated for a few moments, watching Skittery's retreating back, and swore again as he completely disappeared from view. Ignoring the scoffing looks she received for both her boys' attire and her manners (or lack thereof), she broke into a light jog, dodging people as she rounded the corner after the newsie. She didn't see him at first, and for a few frantic moments she thought she had lost him entirely. Only when she picked him out of the crowd did she allow herself to relax, but her stubborn streak refused to admit defeat. She shadowed him for a few minutes, an exercise that she had become well accustomed to over the course of the past year, until she realized how juvenile she was being. Swifty's papers wouldn't sell themselves, after all, and she couldn't afford to waste more of her selling time by acting childish about the entire thing. When she grudgingly came up beside Skittery, he graced her with an arrogant smirk.  
  
"Lost wit'out me, huh? You'se new tah Manhattan, aintcha?" He inquired in a superior tone. The girl was instantly on the defensive, rankled by his attitude.  
  
"I'se been tah Manhattan, plenty'a times," she shot back.  
  
The smirk deepened. "Is dat so?"  
  
The girl had, again, had enough. Enough of Skittery and his attitude, enough of selling papers, enough of Manhattan. She flung her bundle of newspapers down to the pavement and rounded on him with a heated glare.  
  
"I dunno /what/ yoah problem is, but I ain't gonna take no moah a' dis. You'se dah one who wanted tah sell wit' me, remembah?"  
  
"No, I don't, 'cause you'se dah one dat as't me, /remembah/?" He emphasized the last word, mocking her.  
  
"If yah didn't wanna, den why'd you say yes? Huh?" The girl demanded angrily. Before she could even anticipate his next move, she found herself pinned against a wall, and, taken completely by surprise, held there.  
  
"Look, I ain't doin' dis 'cause I like yah. In fact, I don't trust yah. I t'ink you'se one a' dah biggest liahs I'se evah met." Skittery's eyes were dark. "Is dat cleah?"  
  
"Poifectly," the girl hissed through gritted teeth, struggling to pull away. Her shoulders ground into the brick as Skittery's fingers tightened.  
  
"I ain't gonna let yah go 'till I staht gettin' ansahs," he told her. "An' I expect dah truth. What's yoah name, kid?"  
  
She scowled at him, "I ain't a kid."  
  
"Ansah dah question."  
  
The scowl turned into an obstinate glare. "I awlready told yah me name."  
  
"Yoah real name. I don't like liahs."  
  
"I'se Cat," she insisted firmly. After a tense moment, Skittery released her. She staggered forward, rubbing her sore shoulders irritably.  
  
"If yah ain't gonna tell me yoah name, I'se gonna have tah give yah one," he decided. She felt his eyes on her as she bent to retrieve her dropped papers, and knew he was doing just that. /Fine by me/, she thought, /I need a new name anyway.../  
  
"Well?" she inquired, waiting impatiently. He scrutinized her carefully for a few more moments. She didn't like it, and he knew it. He kept her waiting, almost to the point where she was ready to walk away again, when he finally spoke up.  
  
"Welcome tah Manhattan, Ruse."  
  
-=-=- 


	5. Chapter Four: Chance Meeting

-=-=-  
  
The rest of the afternoon went along considerably faster than the newly- christened Ruse would have expected. While Skittery was far from sociable after the confrontation, he was at least tolerable. They had come to a terse agreement before the situation got out of hand- he would teach her what he knew about selling newspapers, if she would keep up her end of the bargain she'd made with Kloppman. He'd muttered something about not being able to pull the wool over his eyes, and she had merely shrugged, 'forgetting' to mention to him that she was perfectly capable of getting rid of her papers without his help.  
  
"If yah hate dah headline," he was saying now, "yah make up a headline. Say anyt'in yah hafta."  
  
"Dat shouldn't be too hahd," she muttered, pretending to follow Skittery's lead as he scanned the front page of one of his papers. /Mayor Meets Mystery Associate/, Ruse read, and skimmed the text. The second she caught the word "president", she knew she'd found printed gold.  
  
She waved a paper over her head, calling out in classic newsboy style, "Extry, extry! Read all about it! Mayah an' myst'ry man plot against dah president!" Skittery seemed startled at her sudden outburst, mouth half- open as though he'd been about to shout out his own improvised headline before she'd rudely interrupted him. With a satisfied smirk, she traded three papers for three pennies, pointing out the article to her customers, all of them middle-aged men in tailored business suits.  
  
"Like dat?" she inquired saucily, turning back to her teacher.  
  
"Yeah. Like dat," Skittery muttered, eyeing her suspiciously for what felt like the hundredth time since she'd climbed through the window that morning. "You'se shoah you'se nevah done dis befoah?"  
  
"Nope." At that, his eyes narrowed, and just when Ruse thought he might say something, he turned his back on her, shouting a headline similar to the one she'd just used.  
  
/At least, not for real.../  
  
-=-=-  
  
They fell into a rhythm of sorts, wandering up and down the stretch of street that was Skittery's 'territory', taking turns at calling out headlines. When the 'assassination attempt' story wore out, they moved on past the front page, and soon enough, it became a game to see who could tweak the better headline. Skittery was fiercely competitive, and Ruse found herself hard-pressed to keep up with him, let alone dance around the questions he was throwing at her. It made for interesting conversation, to say the least.  
  
"Coipse found floatin' in dah East Rivah! T'anks, sir, page eleven. So, how old ah yah, kid?"  
  
"Sixteen. An' foah dah las' time, I ain't a- aw, foahget it! Moidurah still at lahge! Read all about it! Heah yah ah, ma'am. Much obliged."  
  
"Extry, extry! Cops baffled as Manhattan Myst'ry Man claims anuddah victim! Dat's right, you could be next, sir. Get all dah details right heah, jist a penny a pape. Bottom 'a' page foah. T'ank yah. Ruse, kid, whatevah. Wheah yah from?"  
  
"Brooklyn." At least, she was reasonably sure that it had been Brooklyn which she had run through in the storm. It seemed like she had spent most of the afternoon and a good part of the night wandering in the rain before she dragged herself onto the fire escape- could it have only been a few hours ago? She shook her head, clearing it, and sought new material. Nothing jumped out at her from the dull, smudging pages, but she wasn't about to let Skittery get the better of her. She knew something else was needed, something that went beyond twisting around the printed words that covered the front page. It was at that moment that genius struck.  
  
Ruse saw her victim from several yards away: a young man, well dressed, who continually consulted his gold-plated pocket watch as he hurried along. A yellow-haired girl clung to his arm, babbling on about something or another. She glanced back once, calculating the distance between the couple and an oncoming carriage, planning her actions in tempo to the brisk staccato of eight metal-shod hooves. She waited- three, two, one...  
  
Everything happened in a split-second. The man "shouldered" Ruse, sending her papers splashing into a muddy rut just as the carriage rushed by. The horses' hooves squelched in the mud, trampling the sodden heap into a hopeless mess.  
  
"Sorry," the man mumbled in absolute insincerity, brushing past her.  
  
"Me papes!" Ruse cried, staring in horror at the lump of soggy paper pulp. She threw herself at the man's feet with a despairing wail. "I'se gonna stahve! Please, sir, yah can't do dis tah me! I'se got a fam'ly dat depends on dose papes!"  
  
"Oh, Roger, help the poor dear," the simpering blonde sighed, and Ruse set her pleading eyes on the man.  
  
He started to step past her, dragging his girl along with him.  
  
Ruse stared, stunned into momentary silence. /That is *not* supposed to happen!/ In desperation, she did the first thing that came to mind: she screamed bloody murder.  
  
-=-=-  
  
Skittery couldn't have been more bewildered as he took in the scene, making sure to keep his distance from Ruse, who had fallen to her knees and was now shrieking and carrying on as though she'd been hit by the carriage herself. To his complete astonishment, the well-to-do man whom the temper tantrum was directed at stopped, and finally turned around with an aggravated sigh.  
  
"How many papers did you have?" He demanded, and without looking, Skittery could tell he was rolling his eyes.  
  
"Th-thoity," Ruse sniffled miserably. The man- Roger, the lady had called him- produced the appropriate change and practically flung it at the aptly nicknamed newsgirl, muttering angrily to himself. Ruse looked up, gushing a litany of thanks, which were ignored as the man spun on an expensive heel and hurried away in disgust.  
  
-=-=-  
  
Under Skittery's wary eye, the aptly named Ruse hauled herself to her feet, waiting until the man had disappeared from sight before opening her clenched fist, counting out the change. She pocketed it, allowing a triumphant smile to creep across her face.  
  
"How many were dere?" Skittery's expression didn't change as he scrutinized her. She brushed off her knickers, taking her time before answering him.  
  
"In dah street? Ten. But 'e as't how many dere /were/," she continued, explaining it to him as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "an' I /had/ thoity dis moahnin'. Not like I was lyin' oah nothin', right?"  
  
He didn't answer, and Ruse hadn't really expected him to. She fingered the change in her pocket, thinking of the meal she'd be able to treat herself to, thanks to the extra quarter. "So. wheah'd dey say we should meet 'em at? Tibby's, was it?"  
  
"Yeah. Tibby's." Skittery hesitated for a few more moments, watching her apprehensively, and turned back the way they had come. Ruse sighed, and then followed.  
  
/Maybe I shouldn't've done that, after all. But it seemed like a good idea at the time./  
  
-=-=-  
  
To the untrained eye, the pair of newsies walked along in a companionable silence, having finished their work for the day. Anyone who looked more closely, however, would be able to see the tension that hung in the air between them. After Ruse's grand performance, Skittery was standoffish, hardly speaking except to occasionally shout out some headlines in an attempt to rid himself of the few papers that yet remained. "No sellbacks," he had explained earlier, back when Ruse had just begun to think that maybe he was beginning to relax in her presence, "Yah eat what yah don't sell."  
  
Obviously, the dark-eyed newsie had every intention of returning home empty- handed. He had to make up some extravagant lines to sell the last few papes, ones which almost made Ruse smile- she might have, if he hadn't been so aloof. In the time it took to walk three blocks, he was done, and he picked up his pace, jamming his hands into his pockets. Ruse trotted alongside, taking two steps for each of his, and they were making good time, until she felt a tiny tug at her hip. Before she even realized it, her hand darted out in a reflexive motion and clamped tightly around a wrist which belonged to the hand that was in her pocket- a hand that wasn't her own. The pickpocket whirled to face her, a teenaged boy with shaggy, white-blond hair, wintry blue eyes, and pale skin. The wide-eyed shock written in his facial expression gave way to startled recognition.  
  
"Losin' yoah touch, Dash," Ruse admonished, releasing the teen's wrist. He obediently drew his hand out of her pocket.  
  
"Foah-" he started to say, but she cut him off with a small shake of her head and a sideways glance at Skittery. The thief caught her meaning, and tried again. "How've yah been, kid? We've missed yah!" He caught her up in a friendly, spur-of-the-moment hug, clapping her on the back for good measure. Skittery raised an inquiring eyebrow. Ruse ignored him.  
  
" 'We'? Wheah's Crash?" She scanned the crowd, and even as she spoke, another pickpocket joined them, an exact mirror-image of the first.  
  
"Holy sh- it really is you, kid!" An infectious smile lit up his face, and the grin spread to his identical counterpart. "Me'n Dash was hopin' dat dah rumors was true. How'd yah do it wit'out havin' Snydah sniffin' at yoah heels?" Crash exclaimed, after slapping her on the back a few more times. Ruse tried not to wince.  
  
"Snatch was at dah windah. Said 'e hadda train tah catch, but he t'ought 'e'd stop by on 'is way out, yah know, tah catch up on some t'ings. Jist happened tah have a rope handy, 'e said." She wished Crash hadn't named the warden, knowing she'd have questions to answer later on.  
  
"So Snatch got away," Dash looked strangely relieved. "He tol' us dat 'e was skippin' town, but we didn't t'ink 'e'd make it, not wit' Night'awk bein' dah way she is, an' 'specially not since Brass got 'im pretty good, right befoah 'e disappeahed. He fin'ly got out, how d'yah like dat, Crash?" The blond chuckled to himself. "So'd Capah go wit' 'im? Dey was always like bruddahs."  
  
Ruse's eyebrows knit together in confusion. "Capah? I t'ought 'e was wit' you'se!"  
  
The grin slid right off of Dash's face. "Yah don't t'ink-"  
  
"No." No- not Caper. Not him! Ruse had a sudden mental image of their older friend: reddish hair that fell in unruly waves into blue-grey eyes, and that devilish grin that meant he was about to do something crazy.  
  
"No, not Capah. 'E's too smaht foah dat. Prob'ly up in Joisey, like 'e always us't'a tawk about," Crash said with a weak smile, sounding like he only half-believed it himself. Silence settled over the trio, until Ruse changed the subject.  
  
"So, what brings yah intah Manhattan?" she wanted to know.  
  
"Actu'ly," Dash shared a hesitant glance with his brother, "You."  
  
"Me?" Both nodded. "Damnit," she breathed, "Why can't she jist leave me dah hell alone?" She didn't have to ask- she knew the answer, even if they didn't. "Well. I'se glad dat I ran intah you's foist, den," she told them truthfully.  
  
"Jist keep an eye out foah trouble, yah heah?"  
  
"Yeah, Dash, I heah yah," Ruse sighed.  
  
"Take ca'e a' yoahself," Crash told her, with all the concern a kid would have for a younger sibling.  
  
"I will."  
  
"See yah 'round, kid." One of them ruffled her hair, and she smiled half- heartedly as the twin blonds turned and melted into the crowd. She shook her head sadly, a rueful smile twisting at the corner of her mouth- until she remembered Skittery.  
  
His thoughtful stare was almost appraising, and Ruse had no doubt that he was taking in whatever he had just seen and heard, making his own conclusions about her. She /hated/ when people did that...  
  
"It ain't what yah t'ink," she told him.  
  
"Really?" He countered, his voice harsh. "An' what makes yah t'ink I believe dat? You've done nothin' but lie tahday."  
  
Ruse fought against the urge to deck him, and in as sweet a tone as she could manage, replied, "I ain't nevah lied. I jist nevah said dah whole truth. Hey- ain't dat Pie Eatah an' Snoddy ovah dere?"  
  
Sure enough, it was. Dutchy and Specs were with them, Specs with his hand on the shoulder of a slightly shorter girl with light colored hair. Another girl, curly-haired, waved goodbye to Dutchy and ran off to meet up with some of her friends. Ruse quickened her step- as far as she was concerned, the less time she had to spend alone with Skittery, the better, and she was sure he felt the same way.  
  
-=-=- 


End file.
